Ok, I notice my stats are down, so it’s time for another post.
Here’s the background to this particular post:
Hate my job. Husband out of work several years. Both of us looking for jobs. Neither of us finding anything. Economy sucks. No jobs out there. Feeling trapped. Etc., etc. So, we don’t need any more trouble…
I did have a wonderful work trip to Colorado (with a colleague I really enjoy… a welcome break from the office).
Then more trouble started (but there is some light at the end…).
There was ice. Not much ice. Too much ice for where I now live. Folks here not used to ice. Enough ice to close the schools.
But nothing a former Northerner can’t handle.
Til I let the dogs out and for some reason walked out on the deck to usher them back in.
I never walk out on the deck to usher the dogs back in. By the way, the deck was covered with ice.
As I entered the doorway and took the handle to close the door (which opens outward), I found myself swinging from the handle. My head then bapped the door frame. Hard.
And as I tried to right myself, I sensed felt was tortured by… my ankle twisting, turning, bending, burning.
I screamed. My husband helped me to bed as I writhed in agony – this was seriously the third worst pain I had ever felt (you can guess the first, ladies).
It got better, but I am still walking with a limp and this brace thing my doctor told me to get. I asked a physical therapist friend why this particular sprained ankle hurt worse than any twist I’d previously endured.
Age, she replied.
So, at some ungodly and dark hour this morning (after stupid dog walked on me and woke me up), I limped to the sal de bain, then went back to bed. Forty five minutes later, I awoke to my husband’s horrific scream.
Jumping from the bed, I pulled out the earplugs, ran to the bathroom, and beheld my husband standing in 1.235 inches of water.
The toilet had overflowed and continued to run and run and run…
Across the bathroom.
Into our bedroom.
Through the floor and ceiling below.
Into the kitchen.
And, yes, into my utensil drawer.
Amazingly our insurance agent called this AM (after we had gone through 7 blankets to soak up the water) to ask about our roof (did I mention the windstorm last week that blew off a piece of siding and 20 or so shingles?).
I told her we had another problem to discuss as well, then turned the phone over to my husband.
Having done all I could, I left for another torture session at work.
Apparently the agent got right to work during my absence.
My husband ominously told me a couple times on the phone that I’d never believe what was happening.
Well, the agent sent over some folks who proceeded to take down our kitchen ceiling, rip up the kitchen and bathroom floors, tear out our bedroom carpet and install 7 or 8 fan type things that are currently blowing in order to take out the moisture.
Tonight, I’m sleeping in the guest room and my husband, in the basement.
Inexplicably, we find ourselves almost laughing about this “incident.”
For months, we wondered how much work to do on our kitchen. We needed to do some repairs, but how much aesthetic work should we do? What if we needed to do a lot to sell the house if we moved for a job? Of was a little enough? If we ended up staying put, I’d want to fix it up a lot. Where would the money come with stocks at a 10 year low? Plus, in the back of my mind, I wanted new carpet upstairs, but why bother, if we were going to move? AUGH.
We’re pretty sure now what we need to do in the kitchen… and we’ll get new carpeting, too.
For the first time in months, I sense God guiding us.
Through an overflowing toilet.
Dear Lord: Yesterday I felt like Job. Today I have a bit of hope. Thanks! Amen.